


Keeping On

by muse2write



Category: Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears (2020), Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Post-Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears, Post-Season/Series 03, Things I needed to see in the movie, We should have had more of the original cast, phrack - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26449771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse2write/pseuds/muse2write
Summary: * SPOILERS FOR MISS FISHER AND THE CRYPT OF TEARS *It’s been eight days—eight days since the earth was torn out from under Jack’s feet, eight days since he was expected to keep living even as his heart broke. The sun still rises, the birds still sing, everyone goes about their lives, and it isn’t fair.A look at what the others in Miss Fisher's world were going through during certain parts of the movie. Set mid-movie and sometime after.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher & Jack Robinson, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	Keeping On

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the entirety of Miss Fisher (all three seasons and the movie) in about a month, and this was the result. Because there were certain things the movie did that I didn't agree with, and I needed to fix it. 
> 
> With help from the “Miss Fisher Timeline S1 – S3,” posted here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/13603056/chapters/31228698#workskin) by the lovely foxspirit1928, I’ve done my best to make the timeline of Season 3 gel with the movie, but it wasn’t easy. We know three things:  
> 1) The season finale of Season 3 took place in early September 1929, which puts Hugh and Dot’s wedding around the fourth of September.  
> 2) After careful scrutiny of the newspaper that was shown in the movie, all I was able to ascertain was the Phyrne’s death happened on a Saturday in September 1929, her death was announced in the papers on the following Monday, with her memorial service six weeks after that.  
> 3) The movie is very clear that it took place in 1929, so there is no way that Dot would look six months pregnant within the first three weeks of her marriage. So I’m going to ignore the painfully fake pregnancy belly on Dot and pretend that Hugh and Dot had just found out. It’s the only way I can get the timelines to line up.

_October 1, 1929 – Melbourne, Australia – City South Police Station_

It’s been eight days—eight days since the earth was torn out from under Jack’s feet, eight days since he was expected to keep living even as his heart broke. The sun still rises, the birds still sing, everyone goes about their lives, and it isn’t fair. 

Their lights haven’t been dimmed. Their worlds don’t lack for a bubbly, charismatic presence that made his days more interesting. 

He walks into the station to find that the Collins’ have beaten them there. Hugh is in his usual spot at the front desk, looking more worn than a young man has right to be less than a month after his wedding, and Dot stands at the counter across from him, her eyes red and puffy as she sniffles. Her hand occasionally drifts to her still-flat stomach, and Jack hates that their good news has been marred by this dark cloud. 

“…so, she didn’t sleep well last night, because if she’s not with Cec and Alice, she won’t sleep unless Bert or Cec or Mr. B are sleeping in the hall outside her door. Alice needed help with the little ones last night, and so Cec arrived this morning, and I could tell by the way Jane looked that she hadn’t slept, and…” 

Hugh’s gaze drifts from his wife to his superior as Jack stalks past, and Dot trails off. Jack can feel their stares on his back as he stops outside his office door and fumbles with the key.  
“Could you go get Bert, Hugh?” Dot’s question is quiet, but Jack hears it, his heart stinging at the pain in it, the way her voice quavers. 

He wheels around and snatches the keys from where they dangle from the peg, beating Hugh to it. “No, Collins, let me.” 

His shoes are the only sound as he stalks down to the holding cell. When he reaches it, the cell’s only occupant stirs at the sound of the key jangling in the lock, cracks open one eye, grunts, and shuts it again. 

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Bert Johnson grumbles, and opens his eyes enough to squint at Jack. “Don’t you look at me like that; not when you’re responsible for half this headache I got.”

“I accept full responsibility,” Jack shoots back dryly, swinging the cell door open. “After all, my decanter was full last night before you showed up in my office.”

“I was performing a public service, Inspector,” Bert retorts, swinging his legs onto the ground and hunching forward, bringing his hands to his temples in an attempt to shade his eyes from the light that pours in from the cell window. “No man should drink alone, not when he’s in pain.” 

How many toasts did they do last night? How many glasses did they raise to Miss Phryne Fisher? Jack had lost count at ten, and he had only sent Bert to the cell to sober up when it was apparent the man could barely keep his head up. They had traded stories about her until dawn, when Jack had gone home to change clothes and freshen up, trying to ignore the fact that the ache in his chest had not been eased—it was now accompanied by a headache that made him see double.

“Thank you for your service,” he says sincerely as Bert shuffled past, stopping just long enough to clap a hand on Jack’s shoulder. 

Jack follows him out into the reception, where Bert is ducking his head and muttering a soft “Sorry, Dot” to the new Mrs. Collins before following her out into the Melbourne morning, blood-shot eyes watering against the sun. 

Sighing, Jack turns to go back to his office. He will need to get another bottle soon, but if Bert is going to make a habit of stopping by, he might need to start ordering liquor by the crate.

“Sir?” Collins is watching him, a small slim folder in his grasp. “I found these last week, and I thought you might like to see them, sir.” 

“Related to a case?” Jack takes the small square folder as Collins shakes his head. 

He flips it open and feels his breath catch in his chest. _Phryne._

He nods once, jaw tight, and forces himself to meet his constable’s gaze. “T-Thank you, Collins. I’ll look these over in my office.” 

He retreats to his office as fast as he can, shutting the door and sinking into his chair, not sure his legs can hold him. 

Closing his eyes and inhaling, he steels himself and flips the folder open.

The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher stares back at him, laughing and making a face at the camera, holding her fingers up to her eyes and splaying them.

He remembers when they took them. He remembers standing at the desk, watching Collins try not laugh and begging her to be serious as she posed in front of the camera as if she were taking the pictures for a fashion magazine and not for the police.

 _Come after me, Jack Robinson._

Her words have haunted him since he watched her plane disappear into the clouds only a few weeks ago, and at the time, as he stood in that field, he swore to himself that he _would_ go after her, that he would not lose her again, because she was precious to him, and he couldn’t live without her, he knows that now—

But now he will have to. He won’t have another chance to tell her how he felt. One kiss was all he got in the field, and it will have to sustain him for the rest of his life. 

Clearing his throat, Jack slides the picture into his inner jacket pocket and blinks furiously as his eyes sting. It will have to be enough.

********

_November 4, 1929 – London, England – Lofthouse Manor_

Blind and deaf to anything around him, Jack strides across the lawn towards Lofthouse Manor. His footsteps echo the drumming of his heart, full of anger and pain and hope, wild, untamed hope, and that only makes him more furious. 

He accosts a footman just inside the entryway. “I need a telephone.” 

The young man takes one look at the clenched jaw and icy eyes of the man who has his arm in a firm grip and shows him to the library with alacrity, where a phone sits on one of the tables, near a pair of wingback chairs and a great stone fireplace.

Jack picks up the phone and rattles off the first number that comes to mind to the operator, and it's only once the line is ringing that he thinks of the cost.

Well, damn them. He isn’t in the mood to be charitable, and God knows Lofthouse can afford the call.

The line rings six times before the operator politely informs him that there doesn’t seem to be anyone at that number currently. Jack thinks for a moment, does the math to ensure he has the right time difference, and gives the operator the other number he has memorized—the one he should have called first.

This time, the phone only rings twice before a familiar voice come on the lines. “Fisher residence, how many I help you?”

“Mr. Butler,” Jack breathes with a sigh of relief, some of the tension leaking from his shoulders, “is Constable Collins there?”

“Of course, sir, one moment,” Mr. Butler replies, and Jack hears the dull _thud_ of the receiver being set down, and the line crackling.

Seconds later, Collins’ voice comes down the line. “Sir, what is it? Is everything all right? We thought you’d be at the memorial service by now—”

“Collins.” Jack cuts him off, then sucks in a deep breath and says the words he didn’t think were possible. “She’s alive.”

There are several long moments of silence where all he hears is static from the line hissing in his ear. Just as he is about to dial for the operator and request to be reconnected, Hugh swears so violently and sharply that Jack’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline.

He didn’t realize his constable even _knew_ that kind of language.

He also isn’t sure Collins even realizes he was cursing. “One moment, sir, sorry, sir,” he babbles into the phone. “I need to get Dot, one moment, sir!”

There is a louder _thud_ as the receiver is dropped to the hall table, but even without the receiver, he can still hear Collins' bellowing, loud enough for the whole house to hear. _“Dottie! Dottie!”_

He hears Dot’s voice, faint and inarticulate. Collins’ responds, and then there is a high-pitched shriek. 

The phone rustles as someone fumbles with the receiver, and then Dot’s voice is in his ear, breathless with disbelief. “Oh, sir, is it true? Is what Hugh said really true?”

Jack closes his eyes and swallows hard, trying to get his voice under control. The wild hope in Dot’s voice echoes what currently bands his ribs and is squeezing, and he can’t give into it. Not now. Not when he is so hurt and angry.

“It’s true, Dot,” he says, and she shrieks again, an odd laughing-cry. “She’s alive.”

By now, he can faintly hear other voices as Dot jubilantly spreads the news to the rest of the household, and he can picture it—Mr. B standing beside the phone, discreetly dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, Bert with one arm slung around Mr. Butler and the other around Cec. He can hear Bert cursing up a blue streak as he hoots his elation, and he can hear Jane giggling with delight as well. He can picture Cec with his hands clapped over Jane’s ears to keep the worst of Bert’s curses at bay, a wide grin on his face as she dances beside Dot, who no doubt has been lowered carefully into the chair beside the phone by Collins. 

He wants to be there. God, how he wants to be there. He wants to be _home,_ to be with those people who have kept him from slipping entirely into the darkness these last six weeks. He doesn’t want to be here, in this echoing manor where death apparently doesn’t stick, and he has lost his heart to a flippant creature who doesn’t know how deeply she has hurt him.

In the midst of all the celebration, it's Dot who senses there is meaning to his quiet and asks the question that pierces him.

“Are you all right, sir?” 

Jack gives a watery laugh, and if only he and Dot notice that it has a bit of a sob at the end, that is between them. “No, Dot. No, I am not.”

It hurts. It hurt to watch her descend from the skies the same way she had left him, to greet them all with smiles and cheery words, to dismiss the rumors of her own death with a flippant hand. It hurts to see her again, when he has spent the last six weeks doing his best to reorder his life so it returned to the way it was before her, even though he knows it never can.

He’s not sure how, but he senses her the moment she enters the library—the hair on the back of his neck rises, and he stiffens, rotating towards her. He doesn’t want to be so aware of her, but he is—damn her, he cannot ignore her any more than a compass can ignore true north.

So he gives in and swings her way, wordlessly extending the phone to her.

Phryne steps towards him to take the phone, and he closes his eyes as her French perfume washes over him. He makes sure that his fingers don’t brush hers as she takes the receiver from him, because he isn’t sure what would happen if he touches her again.

She lifts the phone to her ear, and even though he knows he should leave, he lingers.

“Dot?” She says, and he is close enough to hear Dot’s choked sob.

“Oh, miss! We thought you were dead!”

“Goodness, Dot,” Phryne says, and Jack winces at the way her clear laugh makes his heart skip a beat, “you should know that rumors of my death are always greatly exaggerated.”

Jack can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. It takes him a second, but then he realizes that she is referring to the moment when he thought she was dead at the wheel by her own reckless driving, and he stiffens, anger surging again.

How _dare_ she! How dare she reference the other moment he thought his world had forever gone dull, when he had to explain to her that he cared too much, that he couldn’t watch her destroy herself, that it would hurt him too badly. 

But Phryne is still speaking. “You didn’t close up the house and sell all my things, I hope?” 

“No, miss,” Dot says immediately. “Mrs. Stanley gave us enough to make sure that we could all stay on until the new year, and then look for new places. She said she would write us references.”

“Did she?” Phryne says, and Jack can read the relief and pleasure in her blue eyes. “Thank goodness for Aunt P. I’ll have to thank her. I know the neighbors were trying to poach Mr. B away from me, and I simply can’t live without him.” 

_What about me?_ A traitorous part of Jack’s heart whispers. _Can you live without me?_

“Oh, and congratulations to you and Hugh, Dot! I meant to respond to your letter when you first wrote me, but then I had to abandon my ship before I got to port to avoid pirates, and I’ve been India these last few weeks, and I simply haven’t been able to find a way to send the post or get any newspapers. Is Dr. Mac taking good care of you?” 

“Yes, miss,” Dot reassures her, and Jack leans against the mantel of the stone fireplace, knowing he should walk away but unable to do so.

Phryne glances at him and sobers. “I must run, Dot; there are friends here I need to speak to. I promise that I will telegram when I’m coming home. Give my love to everyone!”

As she puts the receiver down, the _clunk_ of the phone hitting the cradle is enough to unfreeze Jack from where he stands. 

He needs to go. There is nothing for him here. 

“Jack,” Phryne starts, but he steps away from her, towards the library door, because he can’t.

He can’t look into her blue eyes and refuse her, but anger still thrums in his blood.

He wants to tell her. He wants to rage, to force her to see what she has done to the people who love her. He wants to show her the sleepless nights Dot has had, just after finding out news that should have made her radiant with joy, and the new lines that a young man like Collins shouldn’t have on his face. He wants to show her the grief that sits on young Jane’s shoulders and stooped Mr. Butler’s. He wants to show her the nights that Bert has spent soused in the holding cell, and to show her how reticent Cec has become. He wants to show her Aunt Prudence’s grief, that she had lost one beloved son so recently and came twelve thousand miles to mourn the loss of another beloved, like he has. 

Most of all, he wishes he could show her the cracks in his heart, the ones that formed the moment Dot gave him that newspaper on that rainy evening. The cracks that have not healed, that scabbed over in the last six weeks and now threaten to break open again, leaving him bloody and facing an abyss he’s not sure he can crawl out of. 

He says none of these things. Instead, he says the words he promised he would say, that he was finished. 

“Farewell, Miss Fisher.” 

He hears a soft "Jack..." trail after him as he exits the library, but he does not look back. 

*********

_December 14, 1929 – Melbourne, Australia – 221B, The Esplanade_

The Esplanade shines with a buttery warmth, every window lit with a candle, strewn with garlands in the week before Christmas. The trim glows a heart-red, and everything about it calls to the two who exit the motorcar now: 

_Come home._

The front door is open, and their welcoming committee stands on the steps: Mr. Butler, flanked by Cec and Bert and Mac. Hugh and Dot stand in front of them, holding hands, and in front of them stands Jane, peering anxiously towards the street. 

“Miss Fisher!” Jane tears herself out of Dot’s grasp and barrels down the front walk before they make it two steps past the front gate. 

Jack shifts a step to the right as Phryne spreads her arms and cries “Jane!” in response. The girl doesn’t slow, and the exuberance of her embrace knocks Phryne back a step. 

Jane buries her face in Phryne’s shoulder—she’s gotten taller—and Jack doesn’t miss the tears in her eyes. “We missed you.” 

“I missed you, too, darling.” Phryne breaks the embrace to cup Jane’s face in her hands and smooth the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t cry,” she croons, and Jane smiles and gives a choked laugh and swipes the rest of the tears from her face. 

Jack follows as Phryne wraps her arm around Jane and leads her into the house, where all the candles are lit, the Victrola is playing, and there will surely be champagne waiting. 

This is a homecoming for the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, after all. 

********  
_Later…_

They are sprawled in the nested mess of Phryne’s sheets, basking in the afterglow. Phryne’s head is on Jack’s chest, nestled against him, her leg thrown across his thighs. He alternates between running his fingers through the ends of her short black hair and letting his hand drift down to trace nonsensical shapes on her hip. 

“Jack, why didn’t you come after me?” Phryne’s voice is quiet against the night sounds coming in through the window. 

The detective inspector raises an eyebrow and gives her the beginning of a smirk. “Is that not what I’ve been proving I can do for the last several hours?” 

Phryne’s pale pink lips—her usual red lipstick had been lost against his mouth within the first twenty minutes of their reaching her room—curve into a smirk, and she stretches languidly against him like a cat. Jack watches appreciatively. He might be spent for the moment, but if she continues, he might…

“But really, Jack.” Phryne interrupts his wanderings and pulls him back to the present, her nails lightly grazing his chest. “I made a romantic overture. Why didn’t you come after me?” 

Jack grunts and turns towards her, and she lifts her face towards his. “You never gave me a chance,” he says softly, and Phryne’s brows knit in confusion. “I was going to come after you, but two weeks after you left, there was that announcement in the paper, and…” his gaze drifts to the opposite wall and grows distant. “I lost my chance.” 

“Oh, Jack.” Phryne reaches up and traces his jaw with her fingertips, smiling as he turns to kiss them. “I will always come back to you.” 

Jack pauses in pressing kisses to her palm and looks at her, blue eyes steady. “Can you promise that? Can you save the world and still come back to me?” 

“I gave you my heart,” Phryne reminds him, her voice soft as she curls against him, and Jack feels the possessive thrum for her that resonates deep in his bones every time she reminds him of that. “I may try to save the world, Jack Robinson, but I will always do my best to come home to you.” 

Jack buries his lips in her hair, kissing the crown of her head, her forehead, her temples, her eyelids. “' _Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space._ '” 

Phryne gives him a sly smile as she arches up into him, pale skin glowing in the light of the lamps. “Quoting Antony again, Inspector? We’ve already been to Egypt. Are you planning another trip?” 

Jack props himself up onto his side, and Phryne rolls until she is flat on her back, never taking her eyes off of him. Jack traces his lips along the skin of her throat, distracted by the line of her neck, and Phryne lifts her chin to give him better access, one of her hands curling around his hip and tugging until he is on top of her. 

“I’m not much inclined to leave Melbourne again any time soon, Miss Fisher,” he murmurs against her clavicle, scraping his teeth against the skin there just so he can watch the color rise to her cheeks and her eyes flash. After spending six weeks sure that he would never experience this, being in her bed for the last two months (and even longer, he hopes) is highly satisfying. 

Phryne’s lashes flutter against her cheeks as she smirks at him, leaning up and forward to capture his lips with her and nip at his lower one. “Well,” she sighs, “I suppose the world can wait until after the new year to be saved.” 

Jack hums against her mouth and then pulls away to duck his head and press kisses into her belly. Phryne settles back against the sheets as he moves towards her hips. “What will we do in the meantime, I wonder?” 

Jack’s response is inarticulate, and it causes Phryne to press into the bed and arch her back, gasping. His blue eyes gleam up at her with masculine satisfaction, and he props his chin on her upper thigh and considers her. 

“I can think of several things.” He dips his head and presses a kiss to her inner thigh while Phryne catches her breath. He smirks at her from where he sprawls between her legs. “Besides, even when you’re on holiday, murderers seem eager to accommodate you. I don’t think we’ll lack for activities.” 

“Mmm.” Phryne hums in agreement and stretches, enjoying the heat of Jack’s gaze. “And what activities might these be?” 

Jack’s answering smile is nearly wolfish, and all too pleased. “Allow me to show you.”


End file.
